Call me maybe
Pairing: platonic, just a cute funny drabble between female!reader, Marc, and Steven (tiny Jake reference)
Desc: you’re trying to get through to the dentist when you accidentally find yourself on the phone with three strange roommates.
Adulting is hard, and even though you’re well into your thirties now, the thought of ringing up the dentist to book an appointment still makes your stomach squeeze into a dozen tiny knots.
You crash onto the sofa just as your phone screen lights up in your hand: a text from Mum.
Sweetie I’m sure. Stop delaying!!
Your previous message had been an urgent, Are you sure this is the right number??
Perhaps you should just take your mum’s advice and get this all over with. The worst case scenario will be that your throat will seize up and you’ll end up excusing an ugly croak. That did happen once.
No, on second thoughts, this is a terrible idea.
Another text from mum: Have you called yet?
Damn her and her stubborn persistence. But you know her heart is in the right place: if you don’t make this call you’ll be drinking your food from a smoothie cup at every social gathering for the rest of your life.
Okay. You can do this.
You stab in the number, then allow your thumb to waver uncertainly over the call button. For a solid ten seconds, your heart bobs in your throat as your finger balances the art of “Will she? Won’t she?”. At one point you think of banishing the idea and calling it a day…
With a reckless burst of spontaneity, you hit call.
You compress the urge to hurl the phone straight across the room, which is a good start, but you feel your heartbeat immediately quicken, beads of sweat prickling at your scalp as it begins to dial.
After five painful rings, you hear a click on the receiving end, then a faint, “Hello?” The owner has a strong London accent, which you recognise because you live just on the outskirts. Still, you’d expected something more professional.
“Uh, yes hello,” you say, bringing the phone to your ear. “My name’s Y/N Y/LN. I’m wondering if I could possibly book a dental appointment?”
“Uh…” There’s a short period of silence, then you assume he’s passed the phone, as another responds instead. American. “Yes, we can do that. Is this for your dentures referral?”
“My… what? Sorry. You must have me mistaken for somebody else. I don’t need dentures. I need a filler.”
“Oh no, ma’am,” the American says, “you’re in desperate need of dentures. Your teeth have contracted a rare bone disease that means you will experience rapid teeth loss—“
“That’s enough,” the Londoner cuts in.
“My teeth are going to fall out?” you cry, feeling a rush of anxiety coil it’s spindly tail down the back of your neck.
“No, no, no! Bloody hell, Marc! Don’t panic. That was just my… Roommate,” the voice says quickly. “Sorry, some people just can’t help acting the goat whenever the opportunity presents itself.”
“Hold on,” you say, “I’m confused. You’re there with your roommate?”
“I think you called the wrong number,” the Londoner explains.
Goddammit Mum.
“Oh, that makes more sense. Sorry for wasting your time. I’ll hang up now—“
“No wait. Hang on! Marc needs to apologise.”
“It’s really not necessary,” you try to say.
“No. Marc, get out here. You’re saying sorry whether you like it or not.” Amidst the strange ramblings that follow, you’re almost sure you hear something being mumbled in Spanish. What exactly is going on?
“Y/N?” Marc says slowly, his accent laid on extra thick thanks to his sarcasm. “I say this as close to my heart as I can: I. Am. Sorry.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard was it?” the Londoner says, sounding particularly proud of himself.
“Will you let the poor girl go now?” Marc asks.
“I don’t mind it too much,” you interrupt. “You guys are pretty funny to listen to.”
“Ha!” Marc erupts, so loud that you hold the phone away from your ear. “She did appreciate my joke.”
“But you’re right. I’ve got a phone call to make. To a real dentist. Else I won’t be able to eat solid food ever again.”
“No,” the Londoner says. “Make that phone call. No solid food? That sounds horrible.”
“Hey,” Marc began. “If it turns out you can eat solid food, maybe we could take you out for a bite sometime.” There was a short pause. “Sorry, that was a poor transition.”
You laugh and cover your mouth with a grin.
“No, no. It’s sweet,” you say. “And even if I find out I can’t eat solid food ever again, then I’m always down for a drink?”
You can’t believe yourself. Finding that you’re flirting with these strange roommates. And yet, there’s no denying how happy you are your Mum made a mixup.
